That judgement I just made, that impulse of derision, disdain; is it mine? Or someone else’s? Who’s? My mother and father’s, surely they’d not claim it either, and besides it happened in my mind.
The laughter in my belly ricocheted around, lips up curling, squint; are you mine? Or someone else’s? The friend opposite, it was their causing, but no, I laugh, because I have laughter.
The feeling of alone-ness that gnaws me, that yearning for voices, family; is it mine? Or someone else’s? Who else’s? Myself as a child, but he wasn’t alone, no he had had voices and family. You yearn now. You cannot be a family unto yourself.
That mastering, working, whirring refrain. That calculation. That strain. Is that not your own? Who else’s? My teachers’, the world’s about me. It’s mine, just imprinted and prearranged.
The avoidance of responsibility, the cowering, fearful lack of curiosity; is that mine too? Who else’s? My brothers all worrying, feasting and starving, it is mine, and theirs too. I’ll reckon with it.
Those wrenches of joy and heady pain, the sanguine sky yawing, the soft bed heaving, are those my flutters? My insides? Are they me? Yes, yours, and you can’t relinquish them .
That dark light flashing violent for a moment? That too? It’s Torture and Shame. Are they yours? You theirs? Who else’s? No-one’s, those are for you alone, rock, sea and weed.
You project an image of yourself back at yourself, distinct. Of: A body, I see in a mirror, with an outline, a mouth, ears and hands. In those things – the voice I hear, the manner, the eyes looking back – those are my measure of you. My edge, which I cannot cross.
Blue in the Face 